


Power

by Eve_Requiem



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1662878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eve_Requiem/pseuds/Eve_Requiem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How far would you go to get what you desire? Will you be happy, just because you've gotten what you desired?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power

Finally, Yukimura thought as he stood before the throne - the throne for which he had fought countless battles and sacrificed thousands of comrades, to rise to the throne and rule the country from it.

As he took the steps to the throne, however, a sharp chill ran down his spine. He quickly whipped his head around to observe his surrounding, thinking that the chill was a signal of danger. He waited for a second or two, body tightly wound up in preparation to defend himself against any attack. None came. Slowly, Yukimura forced his body to relax, turning around to continue his ascend to the throne. The sound of stepping on mud came from below his feet.

He looked down.

Startled, Yukimura took a step back, nearly causing him to stumble down the stairs. He opened his mouth to scream, but he could not let out a sound; his throat was paralysed by fear and shock. He was no longer standing on the richly carpeted floor of the throne room, but on the bloodied and lifeless corpses of his comrades, his closest friends, who sacrificed themselves, one after another, to bring him to where he was now: the ruler of Rikkai.

Yukimura continued to stare at the scene before him, feeling sick to his stomach yet unable to turn away. All these people, all who were dearest to him, were gone. To what end? Yukimura clenched his fist, whipping his head to glare at the throne determinedly. He had come this far. He would not give out now. A victory, a throne built on countless corpses, would still serve its purpose.

He continued his ascend to the throne determinedly, eyes focused on the throne and only the throne, trying his best to not let the corpses below his feet affect him. He will succeed. His departed comrades will be remembered and honoured with a plague in the city square, but they will not be a hindrance to his rule. He would not let them.

Seated firmly in the throne, he summoned his second-in-command, the one he trusted to carry out all of his orders fast and accurate to the smallest detail. " Execute all the prisoners-of-war," he commanded, "and get the craftsmen working on the plague to honour our comrades. It must be the grandest ever made."


End file.
